


This Life Ain't No Love Song

by JustAGirl24



Series: Art Therapy [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attraction, Awkward Boners, F/M, Therapy, art therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/pseuds/JustAGirl24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The most beautiful woman in Westeros had been his lover, and Elder Brother makes insinuations such as this? Jaime barks out a laugh, a sharp smile cutting across his face. Elder Brother looks as unflappable as ever, and suddenly, impulsively, Jaime wants to see the man react to something. “Should I tell you about the one great love of my life?”</i>
</p>
<p>Jaime continues therapy with Elder Brother and shares about his past relationship with Cersei.</p>
<p>Jaime goes to art therapy next. A new resident makes an appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take A Step

It’s a holdover from all his years in the military, but Jaime feels more comfortable having a routine, and he’s finally grown used to the rhythm of his days on Tarth. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he has physical therapy with Ygritte. She doesn’t waste a moment trying to coddle him, bluntly telling him where he can take his complaints, and her sharp tongue makes him smile more often than not. After his appointments with Ygritte, he has an early lunch, and then meets with Elder Brother. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he sees Jon Snow for occupational therapy. He’s a younger man, quiet bordering on sullen, patient in the face of Jaime’s frustration as he relearns to do so many things he used to take for granted.  And every weekday, he looks forward to art therapy on the terrace at one o’clock.

Jaime makes his way down the hallway on Monday, time for his appointment with Elder Brother. He has been agitated all weekend, and he looks forward to the peace of mind he often finds in the small, cozy office.

He reaches the door to Elder Brother’s office, but stops abruptly. The door is shut. Jaime frowns, at a loss. He tries to turn the knob, but finds it locked. Elder Brother’s door is _always_ open when Jaime arrives. He raises a fist to knock on the door, and that’s when Jaime hears a low, female voice, muffled by the thick wood, but unmistakable just the same. _Brienne._

 _What is_ she _doing in there?_ Jaime runs his fingers through his hair and massages the back of his neck. He rarely sees Brienne outside of art therapy, and he is unsettled by the thought of this unexpected meeting. He is about to walk away—after all, by this time, Elder Brother is _late—_ when the door opens suddenly, and he finds himself face-to-face with the wench.

Brienne seems as startled to see him as Jaime had been to hear her voice through the door, her face and neck turning a delightful pink. Her broad shoulders fill the doorway. He watches her carefully, as he has done every time their paths have crossed recently, trying to find any signs of the attraction he was sure had been there on Wednesday.

“M—Jaime,” she says with a bland smile. “I hope I didn’t delay your appointment.”

He scans her face for another moment, but no—aside from her flushed face, she looks to be as reserved as ever. It is moments like _this_ which have made him doubt what he would have sworn he’d seen just a handful of days ago.

“Wench,” he drawls. He would say more, but Elder Brother clears his throat, and Jaime sees the older man standing behind Brienne, looking between the two of them with a raised eyebrow. He’s pushing her—he _knows_ he is—but as Tyrion would remind him, he never could leave well enough alone. Jaime smiles at Brienne carelessly, letting his chest graze hers as he sidles by to enter Elder Brother’s office. He hears her sharp intake of breath, and triumph rushes through him, settling heavily in his groin.

Jaime sits in his usual chair, still warm, he assumes, from Brienne’s body. He catches a whiff of something that reminds him of the sun and the sea—her shampoo? He hears the door click, Elder Brother coming to sit in the other one. He steeples his fingers together, his silent stare once more giving Jaime the feeling that the other man knows more than he says.

Elder Brother clears his throat and pushes his glasses up his nose. “How have you been, Jaime?” he asks, voice as mild as ever.

“I’ve been well,” Jaime says. And he has been, despite the agitation of the past few days. “I talked with Tyrion over the weekend. Took a walk on the beach.” Well. At first, he’d actually tried to _jog,_ but that had only lasted a few minutes before he’d been gasping for air. It’s been frustrating to accept how weak he’s grown, and how long it’s taking to make a full recovery.

“How do you feel about your time here so far? Do you feel like you’re making progress?”

Jaime smirks, wriggling his feet and looking at his crisp new jogging shoes. The laces run in a continuous zigzag from the bottom to the top, which is finished with a half-bow. He’d practiced all weekend long with his clumsy left hand. “Look, mommy, I can tie my shoes all by myself.” A skill he’s finally mastered. He looks again at the sloppy half-bow he managed. _Well, mastered well enough for now_. “I’m still working on signing my name.    

Elder Brother chuckles quietly, making a note in his journal. He pushes his glasses up his red-veined nose and scratches the bald spot on top of his head, flipping back a few pages. “You’re doing remarkably, Jaime. This is a long road you’re traveling. Every step is a victory.”

Jaime wants to scoff at Elder Brother’s words, but the older man’s smile is genuine, and it takes away some of the sting to Jaime’s pride from needing to relearn such basic tasks. He shrugs.

 “How about art therapy? Brienne?” Elder Brother asks, looking at Jaime meaningfully, and he is suddenly thrown off balance.

“Fine.” The word is out of his mouth too quickly, and Elder Brother makes a dubious noise in the back of his throat. Jaime is at a loss as to what to say. How does he explain that moment between Brienne and himself before class just five days ago? He barely understands it himself. Instead, he alternates between a deep, fervent knowledge that he’d seen attraction on Brienne’s face, and doubting himself when confronted with her coolly detached smiles at art therapy over the next couple days.

“Jaime,” Elder Brother says gently, “there’s nothing wrong with admitting to attraction.”

He feels his spine stiffen at Elder Brother’s words. “Please,” Jaime scoffs. He sounds less than convincing to his own ears, and it takes everything he has to hold Elder Brother’s gaze.

“Oh?”

Jaime rankles at the other man’s tone. The most beautiful woman in Westeros had been his lover, and Elder Brother makes insinuations such as this? Jaime barks out a laugh, a sharp smile cutting across his face. Elder Brother looks as unflappable as ever, and suddenly, impulsively, Jaime wants to see the man react to _something._ “Should I tell you about the one great love of my life?” he asks conversationally, and Elder Brother makes a _go on_ motion with his hand. “It’s just that I think it might come as a shock.”

Elder Brother looks amused. “I’ve been through war, Jaime,” he says in his usual mild tone, “and have been a therapist for twenty years. Nothing much shocks me anymore.”

“My sweet sister once told me she wasn’t whole without me,” Jaime says, willing Elder Brother to catch on quickly. Disappointingly, the older man says nothing, just nods his large, square head. “We were born together, one soul in two bodies.”

“Hm.” Elder Brother writes something in his ever-present notepad, the scratching noise starting to become an irritation, then fixes Jaime with a hard stare. “I need you to be honest with me, Jaime. Was this consensual? For both of you?”

Jaime feels his jaw drop just slightly. Elder Brother looks far from disgusted or outraged, as Jaime expected. And he is asking whether it was _consensual?_ “She was the only woman I ever wanted,” Jaime chokes out. _“Yes.” Gods, yes._ He can feel his control over the conversation slipping from his grasp.

“And neither of you coerced the other in any way?”

 _“Never,”_ Jaime hisses angrily.

“You never forced her? She never forced you?”

Rage fills him at these questions, that the other man could even think Jaime is capable of such a thing. “Not in the entire eighteen years, _no,”_ he grinds out. He remembers how passionate she was, how wet she would be for him. And then he remembers how she grew cold when he came home, short a hand, thoughts of her the only thing that had kept him alive for those long, ugly months at Harrenhal.

 “She was the only one for me, _ever._ Even when she was married. Even when she moved so far away,” Jaime growls. “She said I was the Warrior reborn.”

Elder Brother nods and makes another note. “What does your sister say about you now?”

At that, the rage leaves him, and he feels suddenly hollow. _A cripple. Disgusting. Half a man._ “That I’m…inferior.”

Elder Brother gives a small shake of his head. “Do you see yourself the same way?” He fixes Jaime with the same hard stare from a moment ago.

“Only occasionally.” Jaime sighs. “Not as much as I used to.” And that is true, the more times he sees Sam, the more capable he becomes through physical and occupational therapy, the more he paints, that sneering voice that says _useless, pathetic_ over and over becomes quieter.

“Well, as long as progress is being made,” the older man says with a half-smile. He asks Jaime a few more questions, mostly variations on the coercion question, but finally seems satisfied that Jaime had been telling the truth. “How do you see your sister, now?”

The question leaves him stunned. He tries to answer, but no words will come. He realizes he doesn’t _know_. All his thoughts about Cersei are from their time in the past, when he was healthy and whole, before Harrenhal, before she’d rejected him.

“I think I’m done for the day, doc.” Somehow, he hadn’t expected it to be quite so easy, sharing a secret he’d kept for close to two decades, but he’s done discussing it. At least for today. Jaime imagines sitting on the terrace in front of his easel, the sun warm on his face and arms, like a woman’s touch. He imagines the soothing tone of Brienne’s voice as he paints.

Jaime walks to the door and opens it, leaving his hand on the doorknob. Elder Brother comes to stand behind him. Jaime pauses. “Same time Wednesday?” he asks.

Elder Brother chuckles softly. “Same time, Jaime. Enjoy art therapy.” Elder Brother shuts the door with a soft _click._

Jaime stares at the grain of the pale wood for a long moment before turning on his heel and heading towards the terrace.

Anticipation fills him. It’s time for art therapy. It’s time to see Brienne.


	2. The Scenery's Turned Wicked

It is bright on the terrace, the sunbaked stones warm around him. Jaime sits at one of the long tables that have been set up in place of the stools and easels, a lump of brown clay waiting in front of each chair. Brienne walks back and forth among the tables, setting out thick wooden dowels and tin cans full of wooden sticks with pointy metal bits—tools, he guesses. They remind him of  Ramsay though, and he is relieved when Brienne places the can on the other end of his table.

There is no one else around, and Jaime is bored. Brienne hasn’t spoken to him, hasn’t even looked at him, since he arrived for art therapy. “Play-Doh today, wench?”

She doesn’t even pause, just keeps going about her business. “Yes, Jaime, Play-Doh.” He loves the way she says his name, just a hint of exasperation. She arranges the last can, then looks around the terrace. Her gaze lands on Jaime. She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, chewing on it a moment before walking to her desk.

Jaime fights a surge of disappointment as he watches Brienne walk away, until he sees her pick something up from her desk and walk back over to him. She’s holding a plastic sandwich baggie which she sets in front of him, and he pulls it closer to see what’s inside.

“We’re working with clay,” Brienne says, unnecessarily. “Since you’re early, I’ll explain to you now, and then to the rest of the class with a short demonstration.” She sits beside him and picks up the wooden dowel at his table. “Flatten your clay with your fingers, then use this like a rolling pin. Those,” she points at the plastic baggie, “you can use to make designs while the clay is still soft.”

It’s then that Jaime realizes what Brienne has given him—plastic and wooden versions of the tools in the tin cans. He is struck again by her gentleness and thoughtfulness. “Thank you,” he says, turning his chair to face her, his knee pressing against her thigh. She beams at him, the full brunt of her wide mouth and large teeth like a punch in the gut. He desperately grapples for thoughts of Cersei as Brienne continues talking, blithely unaware of his discord.

“I think the clay projects we’ll be working on will be especially good for you, Jaime.” She is so enthusiastic, her blue eyes glowing, her broad, freckled hands gesturing in the air between them. He wishes she would go away. He wishes she would never leave. “The needle is very diverse.” Brienne holds up one of the tools, a wooden handle with a long, plastic skewer attached. “You might end up using it quite a bit, which will be excellent for your fine motor muscle development. Well,” she pauses, “all of these are good for that, actually.” She trails off, starting to look uncertain at his lack of response. “I’ll just…leave you to it, then.” It’s then that she seems to notice how close he is, the way his knee rests against her leg. Her face flushes bright red as she quickly stands, turning to leave.

“Why were you in Elder Brother’s office?” he asks abruptly, wondering why he even cares.

“Elder Brother is a colleague…and a friend.” Brienne hesitates, then turns back with a sigh. “You’re not the only one with demons, Jaime,” she finally says, a firm nod telling him to leave it at that.

She walks away then, and Jaime finds himself running his gaze over her retreating form, unable to stop imagining digging his fingers into the delicious curve of her ass, the way her thick thighs would feel around his hips…

Jaime stifles a groan and turns his gaze back to the clay in front of him. With a sigh, he thinks that he’s glad Tyrion isn’t here to witness all the awkward erections he has during art therapy. He tries to discreetly adjust himself through the thick material of his pajama pants. He feels as if he’s reverted to a teenage boy,  unable to control himself at the sight of a woman.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he is bent over his clay, rolling it into a rough oval, by the time the other residents begin trickling in. Brienne’s voice is a warm wash of sound in the background, welcoming each one.

Jaime is looking through his tools when his gaze wanders over to where she stands by the door. She is talking with Willas Tyrell, and she laughs at something he says, her hand coming to rest on his arm for a moment before he begins limping towards one of the tables nearby. Jaime is about to turn back to his clay when Sandor steps onto the terrace, grunting in response to Brienne’s attempted chatter. She simply pats him on the shoulder and sits at her desk.

It hits Jaime then. Brienne touches people in class, but not him, not anymore. He suddenly, fiercely misses the pressure of her broad, warm hands. He thinks of all the pushing he has done the past handful of days, trying for something more than her stiff smiles. He thinks of how she has dodged him time and time again, with her bland pleasantries and averted eyes. And he thinks of how she looked at him on Wednesday. He wants her to look at him that way again, like he is a man, not a patient. And once he registers that thought, no matter how hard he tries, he cannot recall Cersei’s face, her smiles. He keeps hearing Elder Brother’s voice in his head, _There’s nothing wrong with admitting to attraction. Nothing wrong. Nothing._

Jaime shakes his head and goes back to working on his clay, distracting himself from the wench as best he can. He uses a thin wooden tool, trimming away the rough edges, putting the scraps in a little pile nearby. There is a clatter nearby, and he glances up to see Sandor pulling out a nearby chair. He nods and grunts at Jaime, who nods back, still bemused by the truce that has fallen between them since Jaime’s outburst during class over a month ago.

Brienne begins her presentation, naming the tools set out on the tables—ribs and needles and ribbon loops—explaining how they’re used and demonstrating them on a flattened piece of clay. Jaime wants to ignore her, but finds himself drawn in by her enthusiasm anyway, her expressive eyes, the oddly graceful movements of her large hands holding the slender tools.

There is a disruption as Brienne is finishing her demonstration, and Jaime turns to see a man he doesn’t know, a new patient, has just entered the room. He is tall and gaunt, with a long goatee. Jaime can’t put his finger on it, but something about the man sets him on edge, makes him uneasy.

“Welcome,” Brienne says, “Mr…?”

“Vargo Hoat.” The man’s voice is terse and hints at a lisp. His gaze runs over Brienne in a way that makes Jaime’s hackles rise.

Brienne smiles, though there’s no disguising her discomfort. “Mr. Hoat. Feel free to have a seat.”

Jaime keeps his stare fixed on the other man, willing him to leave the terrace, or at least to sit anywhere but at the table with him and Sandor. But it isn’t to be. Vargo pulls out a chair next to Jaime, uncaring of the scraping sound the metal legs make against the bricks.

“Thee’th a right big bitch,” Vargo observes, quiet enough for Brienne not to hear, a cruel glint in his eyes. He grins at Jaime as though expecting him to agree.

“Her name is Brienne,” Jaime grits out at the same time Sandor growls, “Watch yer mouth, ya prick.”

But instead of being cowed, Hoat smiles mockingly before leering at Brienne once more.

He’s had commanding officers and peers scoff at him, but gut feelings have saved Jaime from more catastrophe than he can remember. Something about Hoat makes Jaime uneasy, more disquieted than he should be. He locks eyes with Sandor, a quiet understanding seeming to pass between them. Jaime resolves to keep an eye on Hoat from there on out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you everyone for reading, and for your support for this series. I truly appreciate your comments and kudos!
> 
> And an extra big thank you to my beta, ikkiM. You are incredible. Stunning. Marvelous. :D


End file.
